Joanne Harris

Joanne Harris

English author
3 July 1964 —

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Joanne Harris's books

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Love? Well, yes. There are so many kinds. There’s eros: simplest and most transient of all. There’s philia: friendship; loyalty. There’s storge: the affection a child gives its parents. There’s thelema: the desire to perform. Then there’s agape: platonic love; for a friend; for a world; love for a stranger you’ve never met; the love of all humanity.

When dealt one of life’s terrible blows - the death of a parent, the end of a relationship, the positive test result, the guilty verdict, the final step off the tall building - there comes a moment of light-headedness, almost of euphoria, as the string which tethers us to our hopes is cut and we bounce off in another direction, briefly powered by the momentum of release.

If. If. If. A sweetly deceptive word, as light as a snowflake on the tongue. A word that seems too small to contain such a universe of regret.

Children are knives [...]. They don`t mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, don`t we, we clasp them until the blood flows.

Any woman can be beautiful in the eyes of a man who loves her.

Some things can be both real and imaginary at the same time, [...] some lies can also be true, [...] broken faith may be restored.

The process of writing is a little like madness, a kind of possession not altogether benign.

You don't write because someone sets assignments! You write because you need to write, or because you hope someone will listen, or because writing will mend something broken inside you, or bring something back to life.

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